


Stitches

by WitchyBee



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Paranoia, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 06:40:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20962133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchyBee/pseuds/WitchyBee
Summary: “So...are you going to tell me what happened?” Martin prompts, frowning slightly as he applies pressure to Jon’s bleeding hand.Martin’s hands are warm. It’s hard to focus.“Er. I sort of antagonized a—” He stops, fumbling for a plausible lie. “...bread knife.”





	Stitches

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr but I decided I like it juuust enough to put it here.

“So...are you going to tell me what happened?” Martin prompts, frowning slightly as he applies pressure to Jon’s bleeding hand.

Martin’s hands are warm. It’s hard to focus.

“Er. I sort of antagonized a—” He stops, fumbling for a plausible lie. “...bread knife.”

Martin stares at him for a moment, disbelieving, his expression caught somewhere between concern and disappointment. “A bread knife.”

Jon nods.

“In your office?”

“I was— I-It was an accident,” Jon adds. “I didn’t...realize how sharp it was.” Which is actually sort of true.

“Right. Sure. Well, this’ll need stitches, I think.”

“Is that so, Dr Blackwood— _AH!_”

“Sorry, the antiseptic stings a bit,” Martin says. “I’ve brushed up on my first aid since the...well, since Prentiss. Which is more than I can say for you. Honestly, Jon, when I came in it looked like you were trying to stop the bleeding with a statement.”

Not a statement, no, he would never— It was the contact form for Ms Richardson. No longer needed anyway, he supposes, unless... perhaps Jon should try to reach out to her next of kin, tell them...something? What do you even say?

God, Helen... All the statements he’s read where it turned out the person who wrote those words had not survived the horrors that pursued them -- he can deal with that, file it away in his mind. But he hasn’t witnessed it with his own eyes since...since he was eight years old. Jon is so goddamn tired of helplessly watching people disappear forever through doors. Of course, he hadn’t even noticed until it was too late, in Helen’s case. He isn’t sure it would’ve made a difference if he had. That creature’s horrible laughter still echoes in his head. The impossible map Helen drew is still there, unfinished, discarded on the table.

“Jon?”

“...W-what?” he manages, feeling a little dizzy. His head is throbbing almost as much as his hand.

“Okay. You’ve got two options,” Martin declares. Jon blinks in surprise at the strange, commanding tone in his voice. “Either we go to A&E right now, or I can try to sew it up myself here and probably make it worse since I’ve only practiced that a few times.”

Does he trust Martin to do that? He doesn’t trust anyone. At least Martin hasn’t ever stabbed him. He’s never actually tried to harm Jon at all; quite the opposite, in fact. It could be that Martin is playing a long game, hoping Jon will let his guard down, although that seems increasingly unlikely.

Regardless, the inhuman threat potentially still lurking in the archive, this so-called Michael, takes priority right now. This thing that took his statement giver and left him bleeding while it claimed to be...what? An ally? Jon doesn’t know what Michael is or what it wants. He certainly does not trust it.

At this rate, Jon thinks, a bit hysterically, he may not even survive long enough for Gertrude’s murderer to strike, reliant as he is on dumb luck and the baffling mercy of monsters. What if Michael attacks one of his assistants? Suspects or not, he needs to protect them. Sasha already met the creature before and Martin– well, he’s been through enough, and Jon failed him once. He won’t do it again.

“We should go,” he says urgently. “It’s not safe here. Th-the doors aren’t safe.”

Martin looks alarmed. “Jon, you’re not making any sense. You will go to A&E?”

“Fine. I’m fine, but— yes. If you insist.”

“If it’s any consolation, It’s not going to be much fun for me either,” Martin tells him. “I hate hospitals.”

* * *

Martin has spent half his life in waiting rooms like this one. Fluorescent lights and uncomfortable chairs and bad coffee. Nothing really changes.

He’s worried. Martin barely remember how it feels to not be worried about Jonathan Sims. Things have been difficult since Prentiss. He’d thought the ashes might help ease his paranoia but, well, it isn’t about that anymore, is it? It’s about the statements, the tunnels below the archives, Gertrude Robinson, and...probably other things he doesn’t trust Martin enough to confide.

So he is worried. Not only because that cut on Jon’s hand looks pretty deep and the longer they have to wait for a doctor the more it’s at risk of infection, but also because Jon lied to him. Martin knows a thing or two about lying and, frankly, Jon isn’t very good at it.

“Why are you here, Martin?”

“We’ve already been over that.”

“I meant why are you still here right now, with me, instead of...somewhere else?”

“You’re hurt, Jon, I’m not just going to leave you. Do you—do you want me to go?”

“No. I just— If you’re doing this out of some sense of obligation or lingering guilt for–”

“Is it really so hard to believe I genuinely want to be here to make sure you’re okay?”

"People don't—" Jon looks away. “I... I know I haven’t been the easiest person to deal with these past few months. Or... ever, I suppose.”

Martin sighs. “Jon...”

Under the harsh lights, Jon looks profoundly exhausted. Shoulders slumped, wounded hand cradled protectively against his torso, a tape recorder clutched in the other.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Martin tells him. “Why don’t you try to sleep a little? We have some time, and I’ll keep an eye out for anything...weird.”

He expects Jon to protest, insist he’s perfectly all right, but instead he nods in agreement. It’s not long at all before he is snoring lightly against Martin’s shoulder. He considers this another small victory for his personal Keep Jonathan Sims Alive initiative. It’s sort of his job these days, after all.

His phone buzzes.

He tries not to be angry. It won’t help. Besides, Tim is angry enough for all of them. But...god, Martin has been trying so hard to keep everything together, to maintain some semblance of a functional workplace, and it’s just never enough.

Suddenly, Jon sits bolt upright in his chair with a strangled cry, wide awake and wild-eyed. A nightmare? Martin has had lots of those himself recently.

“Hey, it’s all right. You’re okay. We’re waiting to get your hand looked at, remember?”

Jon glances at his bandaged hand as if seeing it for the first time.

“She’s lost,” he murmurs, and his voice sounds so fragile Martin thinks his own heart might break. “She’s gone and it’s my fault.”

Before Martin can ask who he is talking about, a nurse calls Jon’s name and they’re ushered back into a smaller room where his assessment of the injury is confirmed and Jon receives five stitches. He is silent throughout the procedure until he’s told that the cut will likely leave a scar.

“What’s one more for the collection?”

This doesn’t do much at all to reassure Martin, who decides that he will try harder to keep Jon safe, even—or perhaps especially—from himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr @podcastenthusiast.


End file.
